The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(28)

Tessa stirred her spoon around her soup. “Probably because you’re starving.”

At her smart reply, the duke blinked.

Harry did not like the sudden speculative interest that flickered in the man’s hooded gaze.

“My stepdaughter’s gown was made by Madame Rousseau,” Mavis Todd roused herself enough to say. “She’s a famed modiste, you know. Caters only to the crème de la crème.”

“You don’t say.” The duke sounded bored again.

“The French do know their fashion,” Mrs. Todd prattled on. “Indeed, I have been admiring your coat, Your Grace. It is cut in the latest French style, I believe?”

“I maintain a residence in Paris,” Ransom said indifferently.

That explains the bearded chin, Harry thought. Smarmy bastard.

“Not only is Tessa fashionable,” Mrs. Todd said, her voice beginning to strain with effort, “she’s accomplished. Why, Mrs. Southbridge of Southbridge’s Finishing School called Tessa her most ‘outstanding’ pupil amongst her many aristocratic peers. Did you know Tessa went to school with the daughter of the Marquess of Chetley?”

Harry suspected Mrs. Todd was trying to help, but her praise and name-dropping bore an unfortunate whiff of desperation. Like a fishmonger’s wife trying to sell yesterday’s catch.

“Is that a fact?” His Grace’s eyes were mocking as they regarded Miss Todd. “I didn’t know you had such high connections, Miss…, ahem, Smith.”

Tessa’s flushed cheeks roused Harry’s protective instincts. Earlier in the carriage, she’d had a row with her grandfather, refusing to go through with the sham of being the baroness’ distant niece.

Black had put his foot down. The duke says you can’t be a Todd and move in ’is circles. ’E and I both agreed: from ’ere on in, you’re Miss Smith.

Although Harry did not always agree with Tessa’s unconventional ways, he had to admit that he admired her pride: her desire to be true to herself. He saw her struggle now to keep her composure. It was clear she wanted to dish Ransom some sauce. The only thing keeping her in check, he suspected, was her grandfather’s glare of warning.

“How long is this ‘roost’ business going to take?” Malcolm Todd interjected.

“It’s russe, not…never mind.” The baroness sighed. “There are several courses yet to come, Mr. Todd. No more than three hours, I expect.”

“You must be joking.” Todd’s round face turned red. “I’m an important man. I can’t sit around twiddling my thumbs for three bloody hours!”

“Please, not so loud,” Mavis murmured. “Noise triggers my megrims, as you know.”

“You didn’t tell me this was going to take three hours,” her husband hissed at her, albeit at a lower volume. He gestured to the duke. “I thought this was a done deal. Bought and paid for.”

“Nothing has been agreed upon.” Ransom’s tone was glacial.

“You can say that again.” Expression mutinous, Tessa tossed her proverbial hat into the ring. “I won’t have my future decided without my consent!”

The duke slid her another look, and this one didn’t stop at her face. Harry’s muscles bunched, his temperature rising as that tawny gaze roved over her figure. Despite what His Grace might think of Tessa’s origins, there was no doubt that he appreciated the view. That any man would.

She was beautiful, and tonight was no exception. Her leaf green gown trimmed with seed pearls enhanced her slender femininity. Her hair was parted down the middle, her dark ringlets twisted into two clusters and twined with oak leaves made of golden silk. Anger brought a flush to her milky skin and a rebellious sparkle to her eyes; to Harry, she looked like a sulky, sensual wood nymph.

As plentiful as Tessa’s physical charms were, her spitfire spirit was equally captivating. From the start, she’d had the ability to arouse strong emotions in him, be it annoyance or fascination or, aye, lust. Knowing this, he would have to be on guard. He couldn’t let his attraction to her interfere with his judgment or his work.

“You’ll do as you’re told, girl,” Malcolm Todd snapped. “I didn’t get dragged ’ere just to ’ave my time wasted—”

“Enough.” Black’s fist pounded the table, rattling the dishes (and the hostess, whose hand flew to her bosom).

“You, missy,”—he jabbed a finger at Tessa, whose eyes flashed defiantly—“will mind your manners and behave like a lady. And you, Yer Grace,”—like the needle of a compass, his finger moved to Ransom, whose face had turned blank—“will remember the terms o’ our agreement. As for you,”—Black addressed his son-in-law—“God’s blood, cease your goddamned whining. It ain’t the time or the place. Now all o’ you, do I make myself clear?”

Tessa said nothing, her delicate jaw clenching.

His Grace drained his wineglass.

Malcolm Todd muttered, “I wouldn’t need to whine if you’d make up your bloody mind.”

“What did you say?” Beneath his wig, Black’s countenance darkened like a gathering storm.

“The vultures ’ave been circling Covent Garden,” Todd burst out. “The territory needs a new leader, and it should be me. I deserve it.”